


The Voices We Hear (So We're Never Alone)

by lovelyleias



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Dissociation, F/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, headcanons abound, riza is a gift
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-23
Updated: 2015-07-23
Packaged: 2018-04-10 20:36:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4406651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovelyleias/pseuds/lovelyleias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Roy prepares to burn away the burden of Riza's tattoo, Riza reflects upon how her past might have lead to such a terrible present. But memories are rarely kind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Voices We Hear (So We're Never Alone)

In another life, Riza might have laughed. There was something inherently funny about Roy staring at her tattoo again, in the very same house that he first came to study its’ terrible secrets. She sat in the bathtub, her naked flesh humming against the cool tiles. She could feel the frantic beat of her heart against her breast, the rapid flow of air in her lungs. She turned her arm over and stared at the pale blue of her veins, imagining she could feel their weight pressing through the thin veil of skin.

“I am made of such fragile pieces,” she breathed. Roy rose from his knees, called from his reverie by the sound of her voice. She wondered if he heard what she said.

“I’m going to start setting up,” he told her, instead. Goosebumps crawled up her skin and she crossed her arms around her chest. No matter, she’d be hot soon enough. 

“Alright.”

He let out a shaky sigh, and she heard something drag across the sink. She dug her fingernails into her palms and willed herself to not turn around. If she were to see him prepare, she feared she would turn craven and take it all back.

_Pound, pound, pound. Skid. Pound, pound, pound. Skid._

The noise outside the closed bathroom door did nothing to sooth her anxiety.

After she had convinced Roy to go through with her grisly request, he had relented on the condition that a trusted third party be present.

_“I’m afraid,” he had whispered on the train to Norton, her hometown. They had clasped hands so hard that they would later find mirroring bruises. “What I did in Ishval was monstrous. You bring out my humanity, what will happen if you can’t help me? It won’t take him even two days to arrive.”_

_She met his eyes from the opposing seat. The setting sun shot brown streaks through the blackness of his hair. She remembered the boy he had been, staring at her with hopeful eyes and skin streaked with the dirt that seemed to be chronic in teenage boys._

“ _Call him,” she replied through the panic that rose up in her chest. “But tell him only what you must.”_

So, Riza ground her teeth and resisted the urge to shout out at Maes Hughes to stop his pacing. 

Behind her, Roy had turned on the tap. He was washing something. Her eyes welled up with pricking tears, and she mashed her hand against her lips to stifle a sob. “Are you almost ready?”

Roy turned the tap off behind her. “Just a few more minutes.”

Goddess save her, she wished his voice would stop shaking.

“Try to relax,” Roy said tentatively, as if telling a joke he knew wasn’t funny. “I’ll tell you, I promise.”

Riza closed her eyes and sunk down into the empty tub, forcing her breathing to steady itself. 

\--

Goddess. 

It had been a long time since she had prayed to the Goddess that her mother had fervently worshipped. 

“If you are ever afraid, or sad, or lonely,” Riza recalled her mother saying, “know that She is watching you, and that She loves you very much.”

Riza didn’t remember what had prompted her mother to tell her that, just that her brown eyes had looked sad. She was dead and buried within the year. Her father threw her mother’s shrine and statues into the fire the day of the funeral.

“Faery stories,” Berthold had scoffed at the sight of his daughter’s tears. “I told her religion is for idiots and savages, not for intellectuals and scholars. Faith has no place in this household.”

When the lights had been turned off, and her father’s bedroom door had been shut, Riza crept downstairs, willing her feet not to betray her. She knelt at the edge of the massive fireplace, soot staining the knees of her nightgown. Reaching in, she wormed her fingers blindly until she grasped a shard of porcelain. She pulled the fragment out and held it in her small hand. It was still warm. Hurrying back to her room, she lit a candle and gazed at the shard. It was small and had broken cleanly. It was painted green, once a fold in the Goddess’s dress. Riza shoved it under her pillow and fell very quickly into sleep.

She lost the statue fragment somewhere in the mess of her childhood, but could never quite recall when.

\--

Riza stalked away from the schoolhouse, angry tears pricking at the edge of her eyes. At seventeen, most of the other Norton girls were working or even married, but Berthold insisted that his daughter was educated like in the larger towns and cities.

It was true, Rudi Orem— soon-to-be-be graduated but forever cruel—had called her a whore for turning him down but later leaving class with Roy when he came to pick her up. And true, that she had been angry and was about to tell him to do something anatomically impossible, when Roy had shouldered her aside and punched Rudi right in the jaw.

Riza had turned and fled the yard, unable to look at either of the boys. Even so, she could hear feet pounding up the road behind her.

“Miss Hawkeye! Where are you going?” Roy’s voice floated up the hill as he drew closer. Riza tried to walk faster, a difficult task in her stiff grey uniform dress. 

“Go away!”

He caught up and ran in front of her, his boots crunching through the crisp autumn leaves. His smile was so sweet and open that it made her want to forget that she was mad at him. Almost.

She glared up at him, resenting the growth spurt that had hit him the year before and left her behind. His smile quickly faded and his eyes widened. “Are you mad at me?”

She dodged around him, aware that she had ignored both his questions. Her house was to the west of the school, but she was walking south. And as for the second…

“He was insulting you!” His voice was saturated with shock and hurt. “I hit him for you!”

“Shut up!” Riza whirled around, her hands balled into fists. “Men always commit violence and then say it was done in a woman’s name! But it’s only because they think an insult to a women’s honour is an insult to their own. As if you have a claim on things we feel. Don’t turn me into a victim for the sake of your own pride.”

She turned and continued to walk, impressed by how steady and clear her voice had been. She reached the next block before she realized that she couldn’t hear his boots. She turned and saw him standing at the end of the road, his head hung low.

“Mister Mustang?” She approached him slowly. “Are you okay?”

He sniffled and looked up with red-rimmed eyes. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking, at all. The idea of anyone hurting you makes me so angry.”

The tension in Riza’s body loosened, and she ran a hand through her short hair. “It’s alright. I just hate violence. Rudi’s an ass, but that doesn’t mean that hurting him is justified.”

Roy’s lips twitched, and he took in a breath to speak.

“And if it makes you feel better,” she cut him off. “I think I’d be upset if someone hurt you, too.”

They turned around and walked home. A month later, Roy was thrown out of the house for telling Berthold the nature of his future goals. Riza didn’t speak to her father for weeks. Berthold was the one to break the silence by telling her he needed her assistance with his research. It was an order, not a request.

\--

It was blistering hot, and the sun shone with brightness as violent as the war it witnessed. There wasn’t a soldier in the camp whose skin wasn’t red and peeling. Riza sat against a stone, a long way off from the tents. She pulled her shawl around her head and arms. The fabric was hot and heavy, but would shield her from the worst of the sun. A rock dug into her ass, and her boots were filled with sand, but she didn’t notice. 

“Are you alright?” A familiar voice questioned. Every time he spoke, she was struck by how deep his voice had become in the few years they had been apart. 

She said nothing, just stared out at the endless desert.

“Kimblee is a piece of shit,” Roy knelt, spreading his jacket on the sand as a seat. “He likes getting a rise out of people, like this is some kind of sick game.”

His shoulders brushed lightly against her, and she could smell his unwashed body. She shifted, suddenly aware of her own stink and sweat. 

“I don’t know…” she licked her cracked lips. “I don’t know if he was wrong.”

Roy took an audible breath in.

“And that’s what scares me,” she continued, still looking away even as he stared right at her. “When my target stops moving, when my bullet hits their brain, when I kill them, it makes me feel sick. But there’s another feeling too, like I’ve done something that I should be proud of. Like I’m accomplished and righteous. And it’s worse than that. Every person who dies in your fires, dies because of me.”

Her voice cracked and she pulled the shawl from her head. She willed the sun to burn her up, to scorch her into the sand.

“No,” Roy murmured. He leaned over and put a gloved hand on her cheek. His hands were softer and cleaner than hers, usually sheathed in his gloves. “The people I’ve murdered are mine to bear. We are responsible for our own choices. You showed me the way, but I chose my path. You have your own burdens, don’t carry flame alchemy, as well.”

She looked at him finally. His face looked so tired, contrasted greatly by the hardness of his eyes. She saw her own face reflected in his, and knew that—though she didn’t believe him— he meant it. Her eyes burned and she was overcome by a sudden desire to kiss him. Instead she wrapped her arms around him and buried her face in his hair. He gasped and encircled his arms around her waist. 

“Flame alchemy is not a concept,” she whispered into his greasy hair as tears carved paths down her grimy cheeks. “I am flame alchemy.”

A horrible seed of an idea planted itself in her mind.

\--

“Riza?”

Startled, Riza slid up in the bathtub and slammed her shoulder against the rim. She looked around wildly, not recognizing her familiar surroundings. Who had called her?

“Roy?” She croaked, cursing her voice for sounding so frightened. 

“I’m here,” he was leaning over her, and the room came into focus again. Maes made a nervous coughing sound from the other side of the door. “Your eyes were closed, and I thought you might be sleeping. I didn’t want to wake you, it’ll be a long night.”

Riza sat up straight and a twinge of fear ran down her body. “I wasn’t sleeping. I was just remembering.”

He looked at her for a moment, but didn’t ask questions, for which she was thankful. She looked into his eyes and saw his fear, his love, and his overwhelming respect. She reached up and touched his cheek.

“I’m ready.”

**Author's Note:**

> Goodness, it's been more than a year and a half since I wrote fanfic. But I want to get back into it, and I love Riza and Roy so much, so they seemed like a good place to start. When I write fic, I riddle it with my own headcanon. For example, I've always loved the idea of Riza learning a religion from her mother, in juxtaposition to all the atheist male alchemists in canon. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it, and you should hit me up at lynburning.tumblr.com and tell me your own headcanons! Really, I want to know them.


End file.
